Chapter Text
It didn’t even occur to Ballister until later. He made it to his old hideout, cauterized the bleeding stump of his arm, and passed out for three days.
—
His sleep was plagued by nightmares, and he woke into yet another nightmare.
The Queen was dead. A beam from his own sword had killed her. Everybody thought he had done it on purpose. Ambrosius thought— Ambrosius had— His arm—
And Ballister had just run away, which made him look guilty. The pulsing ache in his shoulder coiled into a ball of shame in his chest. In pain and shock, he had reverted back to the instincts of a street kid: get away from danger, don't stick around to get caught, the authorities aren't here to help you. Despite his years of knight training, that was still who he was on the inside.
If he had just stayed and explained… Ambrosius had only acted on instinct, of course. If Bal had stayed, Ambrosius would have listened to him and apologized. Ambrosius knew that Bal loved Queen Valerin more than anyone in the kingdom did; she was the one who had given him the chance to become a knight in the first place, why would he kill her? Surely anybody who thought about it for a minute would be able to see that.
Maybe Ambrosius had already cleared his name, Bal thought hopefully. To check the news, he turned on the old computer he kept here. This “hideout” was a place Bal had for when he needed to get away from the atmosphere of the Institute for a bit, an abandoned garage whose cheesy medieval theme now gave it the look of a crumbling tower. It had a somewhat-functional kitchenette, a couch he’d scavenged from the curb during Institute dorm move-out, and a workshop he used for tinkering. The first-aid kit here was meant for small cuts and burns; its band-aids, tube of antibiotic, and over-the-counter pain meds were woefully inadequate for dealing with a severed arm. It was all he had right now.
A news anchor's voice startled him from his thoughts— the webpage had loaded.
“The hunt continues for the Queen Killer. Citizens with any information are encouraged to call the Institute tipline, at 1-800-SLAY-STH. Once again, stay alert, and do your part to bring this monster to justice.
“Next up, Dr. Olivier Zircon discusses Ballister Blackheart’s possible motives. Did he infiltrate the Institute with plans to kill the Queen all along? Was the pressure of knighthood too much for a commoner and he snapped? Is he a monster from outside the wall? Find out after this quick break!”
They cut to a commercial, but Bal couldn't have said what it was advertising; he stared in shocked silence without seeing. People thought he was a monster. They had twisted his name into something villainous. Some pop-psychologist was speculating on his motives like this was a lurid true-crime story.
No one thought he might be innocent or might have been framed.
It had been… Bal checked the date and winced when he saw how long he’d been unconscious— three days. Someone should have spoken up for him by now, Ambrosius or the Director or, someone, one of his teachers who didn’t hate him? Okay, Ballister didn’t have many people willing to take his side even under the best of circumstances.
His fingers instinctively navigated to Ambrosius’s social media page, the public account full of brand sponsorships and carefully curated photos. The most recent post was from three days ago, a dramatically-lit picture of Ambrosius in the Glorodome— “so excited to officially be knighted tonight!” No activity since then, or replies to the thousands of comments asking him about what had happened. Nothing on Ambrosius’s private account either.
Maybe Ambrosius was still in shock. Maybe he needed time to process what he’d seen and— and done.
Ambrosius knew about this hideout. He’d never been there, because Bal had wanted to keep the Institute separate from this part of his life— another street-kid instinct, to hoard any scrap of privacy he could. But Ambrosius knew there was an abandoned garage somewhere in the Danks that Bal used as a workshop. If Ambrosius had told anyone about it, it would take less than three days for the Institute to find him. Therefore, Ambrosius hadn’t told anyone.
Bal allowed himself to hope that once Ambrosius had fully thought things over, he would make a statement that Bal was innocent. He must believe Bal was innocent.
If Ballister went back to the Institute right now to explain himself, he’d be arrested. Better to wait a few more days for Ambrosius to help clear his name.
Bal opened his messages with Ambrosius. Fumbling one-handed, he started to type, but backspaced each message in frustration before he’d even finished writing out his thoughts. How are you?— You know I didn’t mean to— When will— I’m alive by the way— I forgive y—
His shoulder ached. The space where his arm should be felt like burning and, unsettlingly, like nothing at all. He didn’t want to think about how Ambrosius had done that.
He closed the computer and went to change the bandages.
—
When Bal was twelve years old, he had gone to the Kingdom’s aquarium, which held animals that no one had seen in the wild for hundreds of years. No one had been outside the wall in hundreds of years, but old records told of an ocean— like the river that ran through the city, but infinitely larger and deeper. The creatures there weren’t monsters, but they were strange and unsettling.
Sharks were enormous fish with sharp-pointed fins and jagged teeth. They were driven into a frenzy by blood in the water. The tour guide had told gory tales that the children absorbed with fascination.
Now Bal felt like one of the helpless sailors from those stories. The sharks circled all around him, triangular fins visible and ripples of hidden movement far below. They had scented his blood— pouring from his shoulder, his arm lying on the stadium floor, the metallic smell still lingering in his hideout— and wouldn’t stop until they’d torn him apart.
—
A week, then two, went by, with nothing more from Ambrosius, but constant newsbursts about the search for the Queen Killer. The knights were looking for a one-armed man, so getting some kind of prosthetic arm was a priority. Ballister would have to venture out to get more food soon, and stuffing his sleeve with fabric wouldn’t fool anyone when he could only use one hand.
And maybe, he told himself, he'd still be able to be a knight after his name was cleared. It was his sword arm that— that had been… cut off… but he could fight with the other hand too, and there were prosthetics that worked almost as well as a real limb.
It was a miraculous coincidence that Ballister had interned at a lab that made such prosthetics. Final-year knights-in-training had to do an internship, and while most had chosen weapons manufacturing or shadowing senior commanders, Ballister had wanted to do something that helped people. (Ambrosius, as the only son of the Goldenloins, had been forced to do his internship in politics. He’d chosen to focus on the kingdom’s social welfare programs because he knew how they had failed kids like Bal.) When Ballister had lived on the street, he’d known a kid who was born without one foot. This lab had a program that offered prosthetics at a reduced cost to poor citizens. Bal liked science, and he liked doing something that gave back to the community he came from.
His supervisor was Dr. Meredith Blitzmeyer. She was kind, if absentminded when it came to anything other than her work. She’d called him by the wrong name his first day and it had stuck. He wasn’t sure if she even remembered his real name— which worked in his favor when writing a secret note to her.
Dear Dr. Blitzmeyer,
I didn’t do it on purpose. Please believe me. I need some specialized materials for a prosthetic arm (see list on the back of this note). The alley 2 blocks east of here, 11 PM Wednesday. Thank you for everything, and I’m sorry.
- Gregor
In the deepest hours of the night, he taped the envelope to the outside of Dr. Blitzmeyer’s office window. No light shone through the blinds— she wasn’t working late that night. He wondered how she was doing. He wondered if she’d get in trouble for helping him.
Would she help him? Or would she hand the note over to the Institute? He hadn’t signed his real name, but if she chose to turn it in, it was obvious evidence. He might show up to the alley to find a trap he had laid for himself.
And would that be such a bad thing? He pictured Ambrosius standing there, his golden armor shining even in the dingy alleyway. “I read your note,” he’d say. “You said you didn’t do it on purpose. I believe you.”
Even if Ambrosius had to bring Bal back to the Institute to officially explain himself, that would be okay. Even if Ambrosius had to treat him like a murder suspect. Ballister pictured Ambrosius reluctantly brandishing a pair of handcuffs, Bal offering his hands willingly. Ambrosius’s gentle touch on his wrists—
Bal only had one hand now. Stupid fantasy.
Anyway, they wouldn’t send Ambrosius alone, might not send him at all. There would be a whole team of knights who thought Ballister was guilty and wanted to arrest him. They probably wouldn’t be gentle with the supposed Queen-killer either.
He imagined being manhandled into the back of a vehicle by faceless armored knights. Someone shoving him, Bal stumbling, then Ambrosius’s hands on his shoulders bracing him. Holding him steady, like they always had. It had been weeks since Ballister had felt any touch. His skin prickled with the memory of Ambrosius’s embrace before the knighting ceremony.
A cold, empty space in Ballister’s chest keened for the way things had been. The past years had been full of physical contact, arms slung around shoulders in easy camaraderie and nights spent cuddling in Ambrosius’s bed. He hadn't realized he had gotten so used to it until it was gone.
Bal wrapped his remaining arm around himself in a poor imitation of a hug. It brought no comfort.
On Wednesday night, he got to the alley early and scaled the fire escape to watch from a rooftop. He’d be able to see any ambush coming, and he wasn't sure whether he was avoiding it or hoping for it. Depending on what happened tonight, he might be going back to the Institute. He might see Ambrosius.
Bal felt like he had been treading water these past weeks, desperately trying to stay afloat. To stay alive, when all around him the sharks waited to strike. What would it feel like to just give in? To sink and trust that Ambrosius would keep him from drowning?
11 PM came and there was still no sign of either the knights or Dr. Blitzmeyer. Bal’s thoughts raced. He had spent several minutes working himself up into a panic when he spotted the glint of moonlight off goggles below.
A lone figure in a dark cloak entered the alley, carrying a box. Right, Dr. Blitzmeyer had never been the most punctual. She looked around and, not seeing anyone, set down the box behind a dumpster.
She said something aloud, but Bal was too far to make out the words. It might have been “good luck, Gregor.”
After Dr. Blitzmeyer left, Bal retrieved the box. It had all the supplies he needed and, incongruously, a pack of Rasinets. Bal didn't even really like raisins, but the small gesture brought tears to his eyes.
No one would believe one eccentric scientist about Bal’s innocence. He couldn't go to her again without putting her in danger of defying the Institute. But because of her, he was no longer quite so helpless.
—
It was Ballister's first grocery run during the daytime, his new prosthetic arm strapped uncomfortably over the still-tender stump of his shoulder. (He knew he was pushing the healing timeline, but working on the mechanical arm was the only thing that took his mind off the whirlwind of fear and shame and what-if-I-just-explained no-they-all-think-I'm-evil I-can't-go-back-till-they-know but-the-longer-I-stay-away-the-guiltier-I-look...)
Bal had grown out his beard, wrapped his hair in a turban, and wore his reading glasses, but he still felt horribly exposed walking along the street, like any minute someone would shout “there's the Queen Killer!” But this was a corner of the Danks where people tended to mind their own business. The grocery store was busy with people of every ethnicity stopping on their way home from work, grumbling about prices, scrolling on their phones while walking or waiting in line. The teenage cashier barely glanced at Ballister when he paid in cash.
Bal was feeling cautiously optimistic as he walked back toward his hideout. Then, in a plaza ahead, he saw the knights.
Bal cursed and ducked into a nearby alley. After taking a deep breath, he cautiously peeked around the corner. There were five knights, casually watching the plaza and answering a few citizens’ questions. Four wore the standard silver armor, and one wore gold.
Ambrosius. The blond swoop of his hair, the shine of his armor in the setting sun.
The beam that had come from Ballister’s sword made that armor shine green. Ambrosius drew his sword— the horrible sound of metal cutting through flesh— an electric sizzle— Bal’s shoulder was nothing but agony, fire, pain— the scent of blood and burning— someone screaming—
Bal’s heart pounded against his ribcage like it was trying to escape the memories. His chest felt tight, he couldn’t breathe, it hurt. He staggered back into the shadows of the alley. His shoulder collided with a wall and he slid down to lean against it, curled up on the ground. He felt detached from his body, but also horribly aware that his chest was being crushed inwards and his fingertips were tingling and he was going to cry or be sick or suffocate or…
This was a panic attack; he’d supported Ambrosius through enough of them to know the symptoms, but this was Ballister’s first time experiencing them.
He was supposed to ground himself. Deep breaths— his breathing was ragged and far too fast— he couldn’t slow it down, he couldn’t do this…
What had he told Ambrosius? Breathe with me, in for four, hold for four, out for four. Bal couldn't match his breaths with the imagined rhythm, couldn't even keep count in his head. He didn't want to be here suffering through this alone. He wanted Ambrosius comforting him, a desperate unrealistic dream.
Look around and name five things you can see. The alley. A garbage bin. His grocery bags, dropped on the ground. The blue and gold quilt on Ambrosius’s bed. Photos pinned on the walls of his dorm room.
Four things he could hear: his own rapid breathing, the hum of faraway conversations, a hovercar passing overhead, Ambrosius’s voice.
He could feel the cold, slightly damp pavement of the alleyway. The fabric of a sweatshirt they'd stolen from each other so many times they didn't remember who it originally belonged to. Ambrosius's arms around him.
Smell: the odor of garbage, Ambrosius’s lavender cologne.
Taste: blood where he’d bit his lip, Ambrosius, Ambrosius, Ambrosius.
Gradually, the tightness in his chest lessened. Ballister came back to himself enough to feel embarrassed about being crouched in a dirty alley. He’d had a panic attack just from seeing Ambrosius, yet he’d also imagined Ambrosius comforting him through it? What was wrong with his brain?
Ambrosius had cut off his arm. Ambrosius was the only person he could imagine talking him down from a panic attack. Bal’s body associated Ambrosius with pain and trauma. Bal wanted Ambrosius's arms around him, wanted to rest his head on his shoulder and smell his stupid cologne.
Bal shook his head sharply as if that would clear his thoughts.
The sun had set and the knights were long gone by the time he picked up his grocery bags and headed home.
—
Despite the thoughts incessantly circling his head about just walking into the Institute and telling them he was innocent, what actually pushed Bal to do it was the strange pink-haired girl. Yes, he had a whole list of reasons why he should not do that, ranging from “I might have another panic attack” to “I need to figure out who framed me first, which is why I have this investigation wall, it is not a murder wall,” but the girl had a way of getting on his nerves that made him do stupid things.
Yes, he needed help proving his innocence, but not from her.
“Then from who? The guy who cut off your arm?” Ballister had turned away from her, but she must have been able to see the tension in his body, because she burst out, “Seriously?”
“It's complicated, okay?” he protested.
“Have fun getting arrested.”
Bal slammed the door behind him. His grumpiness lasted for a few blocks of the vacant lots and seedy underpasses that surrounded his hideout, then transformed into anxiety. What was he thinking? He didn’t have enough evidence yet; he was pretty sure the squire had something to do with replacing his sword, and Todd had a motive but wasn’t smart enough to frame Ballister without help— there were still too many missing pieces of the puzzle. He needed to complete it, to present a solid case for his innocence so they’d believe him.
Ballister had always had to prove himself. Everyone assumed a commoner wasn’t good enough to be a knight, so he fought twice as hard. Everyone assumed a street kid was stupid, so he took extra math and science classes and studied every moment that he wasn’t training. No one believed in him until he put in the work to show them why he was worthy.
Except the Queen. But she was dead. And Ambrosius. But he…
Bal really didn’t blame Ambrosius for cutting off his arm. Yes, Ambrosius hadn’t reached out since, but Bal was sure that if he could just talk to him, Ambrosius would understand and take his side.
The metro line from the Danks into the center of the city was deserted at this time of day, commuters already at their workplaces and anyone running errands sticking within their own neighborhood. A flashing Wanted poster with Ballister’s face made him wince. He hadn’t disguised himself in any way before storming out. He was wearing his armor because he’d been fine-tuning the movements of his prosthetic arm. And, okay, he didn’t have that many outfits, and he felt more comfortable in the armor. Like he was still a knight.
In the empty subway car, Bal checked his reflection in the dark window. He straightened the pieces of his armor. Ran a hand through his hair. He felt like he had before his first date with Ambrosius, jangling nerves channelled into adjusting his appearance.
It was almost a relief when the doors opened and a group of knights were waiting for him.
—
No sign of Ambrosius. The knights, anonymous in their helmets, though their voices sounded familiar, talked like Ballister wasn’t even there.
“Excuse me,” he tried. “Could I speak to Amb— Sir Goldenloin?”
They completely ignored him. Bal was reminded of conversations with his fellow knights-in-training where he was made to feel like he was the one being rude for presuming to join them.
The knights only talked directly to Ballister when one tugged at his prosthetic arm and Bal burst out, “Careful with that! Please.” The knight who seemed to be in charge of the group asked Ballister how to remove the arm. Protocol, he said. (Bal was fairly certain there was no protocol that mandated taking prosthetic limbs from people being arrested.) Ballister’s custom prosthetic might have a weapon hidden in it, the knight explained, in a tone that implied that of course a murderer would do that.
Bal didn’t point out that if he had intended to fight back, he would have done so already. Reluctantly, he explained how to detach his mechanical arm. He allowed himself to be shoved into a holding cell; the knights threw in a few final insults as if they had just remembered that they were supposed to revile him. Then they left him alone.
—
The Director, in her white and gold, looked out of place in the prison. At least the hard edges and metallic gleam of knights’ armor fit the atmosphere, but the Director was all softness as she delivered words that cut like a sword.
“I trusted you. The Queen believed in you. She thought someone like you could be a hero. And it cost her her life.”
It was all true; if not for Ballister, the Queen would be alive. If not for the Queen, Bal might have been dead by now, or eking out a living in the Danks, dreams of knighthood forgotten. “Director, please. You know I love the Queen. I love the Institute.” He had to make her understand, he wouldn’t have done this. “Talk to Goldenloin.” Or… (he hoped, he hoped) “Can I speak to Goldenloin?”
“He is as heartbroken as the rest of this kingdom.”
No. Ambrosius couldn’t have believed the lies about Ballister. He wouldn’t have. But Bal’s shoulder ached with the echoes of what Ambrosius had done.
“You won't be talking to anyone anymore, Ballister.” The Director turned away.
“Please,” he begged, “just listen to me. Give me a chance.”
The Director’s silhouette stood straight, features unreadable against the backdrop of golden light spilling from the door. “We gave you a chance.”
The door slammed, leaving Ballister alone.
—
“Why don’t we do it your way?” Bal ranted sarcastically as he and Nimona ran down the hall. “Murder him, murder her, murder everyone—”
Ambrosius. Standing right there, backlight softening the edges of his armor and limning his swooping hair.
Bal froze. Their eyes met. Ambrosius’s widened and his mouth opened into a small “o.”
“Bal?”
“Ambrosius?” Bal put every layer of meaning into the word: I didn’t want our first meeting after… to be like this. I forgive you for my arm. I saw you out in public and had a panic attack. I want to go back to the way things were. I’m innocent, you know that, you know that, please believe me.
Then the moment was shattered by the clanking of armored footsteps. Bal ran, but his mind circled and circled one impossible fact.
He doesn’t believe me.
—
The girl wasn’t a girl, she was a shark. And a rhinoceros, and a whale, and an ostrich, and a lot of things. She was Nimona.
Had Bal ever put his head in the mouth of a shark? Of course not. But he had the feeling he was doing it now, trusting and hoping that she wouldn’t bite down.